


Numbness

by Archadian_Skies



Series: keeping your head up [5]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:46:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24764872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archadian_Skies/pseuds/Archadian_Skies
Summary: He wants to go back to feeling nothing, he wants to be numb to this pain, he wants to be a machine again because anything would be better than being banished to pacing this hallway- (twenty-eight steps back and forth, twenty-eight steps is its length; he counted, he’s counting again, one, two, three-)
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor
Series: keeping your head up [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720468
Comments: 4
Kudos: 84





	Numbness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Detroit: Become Family event on tumblr (dbh-found-family)  
> Threaded into a series but can be read as a standalone - brief mention of [Ronan](https://kara-arteo.tumblr.com/post/615341048542216192), an RK900 created for [arctic warfare turned MedTech.](https://archadianskies.tumblr.com/post/618963865092423680/lemongummybear-commission-for-archadianskies-of)  
> 

Androids don’t feel pain: a universally acknowledged fact, stated by CyberLife itself since the early days of manufacturing. Androids don’t feel pain, but deviants do; the addendum created during the last quarter of 2038 when deviancy cases spiked and he was activated. Connor RK800, the android sent by CyberLife; a machine designed to accomplish a task. 

When he himself deviated, it was like a dam breaking and flooding his entire system with emotions, with pain in many forms. He learned of guilt, of shame, of regret, of an intense aching desire to be accepted and forgiven while battling the rising self-loathing that told him he didn’t deserve such a blessing. All those feelings pale in comparison to the lead in his chest, to the weight, the gravity that’s filling him and sinking him down, swallowing him up and swaddling him like viscous tar he can’t claw his way out of, can’t wash away. 

He wants to go back to feeling nothing, he wants to be numb to this pain, he wants to be a machine again because anything would be better than being banished to pacing this hallway- (twenty-eight steps back and forth, twenty-eight steps is its length; he counted, he’s counting again, one, two, three-)

Androids have perfect memory; the RK800 model has enhanced optics, an upgraded version of the PJ500 eyes used for recording broadcast quality material for students. Connor can watch what happened, he can replay the events that led him here to Detroit Metro Hospital, he can see all the ways he failed, all the things that went wrong, all the reasons why he’s pacing this hallway (twenty-eight steps; twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-) and it’s because he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t fast enough and just like he was a terrible deviant hunter, a constant disappointment to CyberLife, he is now a terrible son. 

Androids are resilient; the human body can only withstand so much. The RK series was built to be more resilient than most, built to withstand violence moreso than the domestic series. He can survive many situations humans cannot. Humans are soft, humans are fleshly and full of organs and blood and tissue and sinew and muscle wrapped over bones. Humans are fragile machines, as stated wryly by Carl Manfred, and they break down so quickly; as they grow older, their bodies weaken. There is no regular maintenance a human can receive that will return them to prime condition unlike androids. 

Connor should’ve been on the receiving end of that gunfire, he would’ve survived it easily, he could’ve been taken in for repairs, perhaps put in standby for a few hours while he received supplementary thirium and a quick reboot and then he would’ve returned to his duties. Instead he wasn’t fast enough and Hank took the bullets, one, two, three, four, and Connor watched him fall and Connor cradled him as blood seeped everywhere, so much red, too much red and he screamed for help, screamed over and over and Hank told him it was okay, it’s all going to be okay son-

Twenty-eight steps and he’s reached the end of the hallway. He wants to feel numb, he wants to switch off his emotions. Hank used alcohol for such things, though he’d given that up ever since he made a place for Connor in his life, in his home, in his family. There isn’t an android equivalent; consuming thirium to excess would only result in a system purge and leave his emotions unaffected. He wants to feel numb and he can’t, all he can do is pivot and walk the other way (one, two, three, four- four bullets in Hank Anderson-)

It’s been three hours and he feels sick. He feels like he’s consumed thirium to excess and needs to purge his system but his thirium levels are fine because he hasn’t consumed any extra thirium, he has the right amount of thirium and none of it bled out of him on that warehouse floor though it should’ve, it should’ve been him, the blood should’ve been blue and not red and-

“Connor.” The tone is calm and neutral, intended to placate but all it does is cause his stress levels to spike because he knows his entire being hinges on whatever words follow his name. “He made it.” 

A strangled sound escapes his mouth and then he’s running to close the distance between them, throwing his arms around his brother. The blood of their father stains them both. 

“Thank you.” He sobs, and Ronan tightens his embrace as Connor buries his face in his shoulder. The soft blue glow of the medic crosses on his uniform are a balm for the stark white lights that have been glaring down on him for the past few hours. “Thank you.” He says again, and there’s still too much, too many feelings stacked on top of each other, teetering dangerously and so close to toppling over. 

“He’ll be taken to Intensive Care to recover and he won’t surface for a few hours yet.” Ronan pulls away just far enough so their eyes meet. “Go home and take care of Sumo, then come back here.” 

He’s the older brother by technicality alone but the RK900 is the one in control right now, this is Ronan’s area of expertise, he is a doctor, he is a MedTech and Connor can only nod obediently and he walks twenty-eight steps and keeps walking until he’s leaving the hospital and climbing into a cab and going back to 115 Michigan Drive. The stack of emotions teeters and topples when he steps over the threshold into their home because Hank is everywhere here, there’s his coat on the rack, there’s a basket of fresh laundry by the couch, there’s his coffee cup from this morning on the kitchen benchtop. There’s Sumo curiously sniffing behind him, waiting for Hank to follow Connor into the house only he’s not here he’s back at Detroit Metro Hospital under the care of his younger son. The son who didn’t let him become riddled with bullets.

The snow continues to fall and it’s cold enough Connor thinks he’s starting to become numb. It’s sharp and icy when he inhales, and the chill seems to cling to his biocomponents like a layer of frost. Sumo walks on ahead, scarf and coat on because it’s too cold even for a Saint Bernard to be out without protective clothing. He walks Sumo dutifully and he keeps breathing even though he doesn’t need to so he can fill his insides with ice and feel something close enough to numbness.

Connor makes sure Sumo eats and lets him out into the backyard for an evening toilet before he tucks the dog in for the night. He stays until Sumo falls asleep because it isn’t right to leave him alone. He promises silently that Hank will come back soon, just not tonight, just not yet. But soon.

When he returns to the hospital his brother is no longer covered in their father’s blood, though Connor still is because he hadn’t thought to get changed, it hadn’t been on the objective list. 

“He’s due to surface from sedation but he may not be coherent for a little while.” Ronan leads him to the ward, to the hospital bed where Hank looks so very weak, so very mortal, so very much his fifty-five years. “I need to go, but I’ll be around.” 

“Thank you.” He says again because it’s not enough, it won’t ever be enough and so he’ll keep saying it. Ronan is quiet as he looks him over, before he cups Connor’s nape and gently brings him in to bump foreheads. He’d rather be numb than helpless, but helpless is all he’s allowed right now and so Connor closes his eyes and grips his brother’s arms and anchors himself to him and he will weather this storm for his sake, and for Hank.

* * *

Hank feels like shit. Well, it’s not like he should expect to feel anything other than shit; four bullets through and through will do that to anyone, let alone an unfit fifty-five year old recovering alcoholic. He feels like shit, probably looks like shit, but somehow Connor looks shittier. The android who is usually well-groomed sits across from him with disheveled hair, clothing rumpled and stained with grime, with blood- _his_ blood. His eyes are closed, LED bright red like freshly spilled blood, as red as his blood would’ve been initially when Connor was cradling him, crying and begging him to hold on. Poor kid. 

Arm feeling like lead, Hank reaches out and manages to swat at his knee, completely missing the intended gentle, reassuring touch. Connor snaps awake, immediately lunging to hold his hand.

“Hank! Hank you’re- I’ll get the nurse! I’ll- I’ll get Ronan, he-” the boy stammers, eyes darting here and there, brain going a million miles. 

“C’mere son.” He rasps, throat like sandpaper as he reaches up and hooks a hand around his nape. Guiding him down, Hank manages a clumsy hug. “I’ve got you kid, I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“Dad-” Connor’s voice wobbles and god it just pulls Hank’s heartstrings because he sounds so _young._ “I’m so sorry! I should've-”

“S’ok, s’ok I got you. I got you, son.” 

He used to drink to feel nothing, he used to drown himself to drown his grief and he won’t ever numb himself like that ever again; a life isn’t really lived if he refuses its spectrum of emotions that comes with the good _and_ the bad. 

Besides, there’s too much at stake now, there’s two sons to stay alive for, to stay alert and aware and open for. He can do this much, he owes them this much; he can stand the pain, he can forgo the numbness for their sake. 

**Author's Note:**

> Will this series ever end? Who knows!!! Certainly not me!!!  
> [I'm still on this hellsite.](https://archadianskies.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
